


Share Your Toys If You're Going to Pout the Afternoon Away

by parsnips (trifles)



Series: Tales of Love, Loss, and Insurance [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Insurance, Post-Movie(s), Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trifles/pseuds/parsnips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The other Avengers have noticed trouble in (weird, insurance-filled) paradise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share Your Toys If You're Going to Pout the Afternoon Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is the world of [insurance-Bucky](http://triflesandparsnips.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:insurance!bucky). These are his stories.

Bucky hasn’t said anything about insurance in, like, a week. It wouldn’t necessarily concern the others — like, seriously, it had come out of nowhere to begin with, it’d make sense if it went away just as quickly — except Steve won’t say anything about it either. He’s just sort of exuding waves of misery, moping on missions, that kind of thing. 

It’s when he starts trying to talk about insurance in Bucky’s absence — and to do so really poorly — that the others actually start talking about it to one another. One of them, however, decides to do something about it.

Natasha knocks on their door when she knows Steve isn’t home, and slips inside despite the fact that the entire floor is supposed to be locked against such intrusions. Bucky is cleaning one of his (many) guns on the kitchen table. He scowls at her.

Natasha approaches and pulls out a chair. “Show me,” she says.

Bucky’s scowl deepens. He lifts the bottle of solvent, tilts it in her direction. Natasha shakes her head. Bucky pauses, puts down the solvent, and pulls out the small stiletto he’s apparently been using to hold up his hair. Natasha breathes out through her nose and crosses her arms.

There is a brief but extremely annoyed standoff.

Finally Bucky rolls his eyes and gets up. He gestures at the gun, still in pieces, and raises his eyebrows. Natasha starts reassembling it while Bucky leaves the room. She hears a tap running — presumably, it’s him washing the gun oil off his hands. And then, a few minutes later, Bucky comes back. He’s carrying books.

***

It’s three days later. The team is on the common floor. Bucky is, for the first time in ages, also there. He’s sharpening a small pile of knives, because of course he is.

Steve is distracted by Bucky’s presence, which is going to be his excuse if anybody asks him later. So he doesn’t immediately notice what’s happening when Natasha props her legs onto the coffee table and says, “Hey, Steve?”

"Yeah?" he says.

"You were born in 1918, right?"

"Sure."

"And you enlisted in, what, the ’40s?"

"1940, yeah."

Natasha nods. “Too bad you didn’t buy any annuities at the time.” She pats his knee, and innocence radiates from every pore. “You know — a life annuinity insurance product, to provide guaranteed income to protect against the risk of living longer than expected.” Her pat becomes more condescending. “Which you’ve done.” Her eyes widen, luminous and pure. ”Because you are old,” she tells him, breaking the news gently.

Steve stares at her. And then, like needle pointing toward north, he turns on Bucky.

Bucky, who is snickering into the handle of his favorite Gerber Mark II.

"I cannot fucking believe you two," Steve says, "you _dicks,”_ and Natasha falls off the couch.


End file.
